


Starlight

by thisisme (Rasiaa)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Adoption, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 15:53:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16162079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rasiaa/pseuds/thisisme
Summary: Viktor's head shoots up in alarm, but he relaxes when he sees her uniform. "Don't tell my coach I'm here, Дa?" he says, smiling like they're sharing a secret, and he winks at her. "He says I work too much. I say he's old and doesn't want to seem like the only lazy one around here."





	Starlight

**Author's Note:**

> I like torturing Viktor. He honestly sets himself up for it. I also like backstories. Perfect combo, really.

She only married this man for the tax breaks.

He's her best friend anyway.

They have only acted like a married couple usually would one time. They were drunk. There was smoke. The lights were low. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Six weeks later, she finds out about the son she never wanted.

She cried in his arms for days and days. It wasn't that she didn't like children or that she had never dreamed of her own, but she knew how low she and he were on the social ladder. They barely made enough money to support themselves, and sometimes they would go for days without food in exchange for shelter from the snow.

She named him Viktor.

They kept him for six months, and then they knew they couldn't do this any longer.

Viktor was wrapped in blankets, and she tried her best. She adored him, her happy little light.

She stood on the streets of St. Petersburg with him in her arms, her husband at work.

"I'm so sorry," she heard, and she turned. A woman was sobbing into a man's shirt.

"It isn't fair," she heard the woman say. "I wanted children."

Heart in her throat, she walked over.

"I'm sorry," she said, and the two locked eyes on her immediately. She swallowed. "I. I was going to leave him at the orphanage," she told them. "I can't take care of him. He'll die. I have no money. No food. But you do."

The couple were wearing some of the finest fabrics she had ever seen, after all.

The woman crept closer, face pale and eyes wide in disbelief. She unwrapped the blanket keeping her son's face safe from the wind to show her. "His name is Viktor. Nikiforov. He was born on Christmas."

She made the last name up on the spot, not having one of her own. Not really.

The woman searched her face carefully. "Are you sure?" she asked slowly. She reached for Viktor, but she didn't take him.

Tears welled up in her eyes. "I love him enough to know this is the right thing to do," she said. "My starlight." She let out a sob.

She pushed her son to the woman. She took him automatically, and Viktor started to cry, but she just took a step back. Her eyes locked on her baby, her little light, she stepped back again, then turned and ran.

She heard the woman call after her, but no footsteps followed.

…

She and her husband haven't seen Viktor in twenty years.

She has no idea what became of him, no idea if he's alive or if he's happy, but she hopes and prays every night that he is.

Her husband comes in, hanging his coat. "Look," he says, and puts a magazine on the table.

She reflexively wants to scold him for the waste of money, but her voice falters. On the cover is a young man, tall with silver-white hair, standing on the edge of an ice rink with golden blades on his feet.

_Russia's Rising Star: Viktor Nikiforov_

That's what the cover says. "Oh god," she gasps, hands flying to cover her mouth. "Oh my god."

She starts picking up the resemblance, then. The same cut of the jaw as her husband, her skin tone, his nose, her eyes. They both have the same hair color, a rare form of albinism that drew them together when they were children.

"He lives in St. Petersburg," her husband says next, and starts flipping through the pages until it lands on the article the cover was advertising. "He's currently one of the best figure skaters in the world. He has a dog. His own apartment. He travels the world for competitions every few months. He lists himself as adopted. Called himself an "affluent, b-list homosexual" which I honestly don't know what to do with. But, honey - he's still here."

There are more pictures of him imbedded in the article. The dog is a huge poodle, apparently, and he posts about her regularly on social media. One picture shows him with the dog, cuddled together on a couch of far finer quality than she's ever dreamed of. Another shows him in a three-piece suit, perfectly tailored to his body. And then the last picture is of him in the middle of a jump, ice showering the blue costume he's wearing, arms close to his chest and eyes closed. The skates are gold in this picture, too, and she realizes that her little starlight skates on gold.

"I want to see him," she says without thinking, reaching out and touching the picture of him with the dog.

Her husband shakes his head. "We could never afford to see him. He's too high-profile."

"I know," she answers. Her chest aches.

…

She applies for a job as a custodian at an ice rink in the middle of the most expensive part of St. Petersburg. The man who's conducting the interview stares at her like she's insane, but he flicks his eyes over her resume again anyway. He probably pities her, but she doesn't care because she gets the job.

He shows up the very first day she's working.

Or, more accurately, he unlocks the doors with a key after hours - it's nearly midnight - and she finds him lacing up his golden skates in the locker room she's about to clean.

She lets out a squeak of surprise, dropping the thankfully dry mop.

Viktor's head shoots up in alarm, but he relaxes when he sees her uniform. "Don't tell my coach I'm here, Дa?" he says, smiling like they're sharing a secret, and he winks at her. "He says I work too much. I say he's old and doesn't want to seem like the only lazy one around here."

She chokes on a laugh, hands flying to her mouth.

His voice is crystal clear, speaking perfect Russian without any trace of an accent. He's got white teeth and they're all perfectly aligned, and this is more wealth in front of her than she's ever seen. The workout clothes he's wearing are insane; she recognizes the brand on the logo by his hip, and those clothes are only seen on runways. She's never seen him skate. But she knows he must be incredible at it.

His smile falters a little. She realizes that she's just been staring at him. "Are you okay?" he asks.

"I haven't seen you in twenty years," she says without thinking. "It's a bit overwhelming."

His face falls in shock. "Excuse me?"

The tone is sharp, the clipped words those of someone who expects to be obeyed. She scrambles for the mop and turns to leave, heart hammering.

An arm on her elbow stops her in her tracks. "Who are you?" he demands, turning her around. His eyes are manic, flashing in the dim lights.

She swallows, staring. "Your mother," she says. "I had no idea if you were even alive after what I did, but your father brought a magazine with your face on it home three months ago."

Some of the mania dies. His eyes widen, breath hitching audibly in his throat. "What did you call me when I was young?" he asks.

This is a test, she realizes. Whoever that woman was, she must've told him how he came into her care. "My starlight," she says. Her voice breaks. "My little light."

She knows she's got the answer right, of course she does. His fingers go slack and his eyes flicker over her face, probably committing it to memory.

"Why?" he asks, small.

"You were the only good thing that ever happened to me," she says. "You lit up my world. I kept you selfishly for six months but you were dying. A home in squalor is no place for an infant."

His eyes soften completely, now. He seems lost for words, just looking at her.

"I knew I could never afford to get close," she confesses. "You - you succeeded my wildest hopes and dreams. You're Russia's rising star. I took a random guess and applied for a job here, but I didn't know for sure if you trained here. It was the only way I could see you again, even if it was from a room away."

"The people you gave me to told me you called me your starlight," he murmurs. He tugs on her arm abruptly and she falls forward as his arms wrap around her. "That's all they ever told me. You came to them in the middle of the street and ran away."

She hugs him back. He's tall enough that she can hear his heartbeat under her ear. "Yes," she confirms. "I knew if I stayed a minute longer I'd take you back. But it would've killed you."

He makes a short noise, and then she realizes that he's crying. "Oh, Viktor," she murmurs. "Come now, starlight. It's okay."

"Yes," he manages. "It's okay now."

She starts humming the song she used to sing to him without consciously thinking about it, and she just lets him cry. He might be an adult, a wildly successful one, but he's still fresh out of his teens, and she doesn't know what happened, but she does know that he needs her now.

She tugs him down a bit so she can kiss his temple. "My starlight," she says quietly.

**Author's Note:**

> Bit abrupt, but I didn't want to extend it unnecessarily and ruin the emotion of the first parts.


End file.
